Castle Richmond by Anthony Trollope (best memoirs of all time txt) 📕

quite from under him, and a dreadful cracking sound of broken timber gave notice that a shaft was smashed. A shaft at least was smashed; if only no other harm was done!

It can hardly be that Herbert Fitzgerald cared more for such a stranger as Lady Clara Desmond than he did for his own sisters and aunt; but nevertheless, it was to Lady Clara's assistance that he first betook himself. Perhaps he had seen, or fancied that he saw, that she had fallen with the greatest violence.

"Speak, speak," said he, as he jumped from his horse close to her side. "Are you hurt? do speak to me." And going down on his knees on the hard ground, he essayed to lift her in his arms.

"Oh dear, oh dear!" said she. "No; I am not hurt; at least I think not—only just my arm a very little. Where is Emmeline? Is Emmeline hurt?"

"No," said Emmeline, picking herself up. "But, oh dear, dear, I've lost my muff, and I've spoiled my hat! Where are Mary and Aunt Letty?"

After some considerable confusion it was found that nothing was much damaged except the car, one shaft of which was broken altogether in two. Lady Clara's arm was bruised and rather sore, but the three other ladies had altogether escaped. The quantity of clothes that had been wrapped round them had no doubt enabled them to fall softly.

"And what about the horse, Richard?" asked young Fitzgerald.

"He didn't come upon his knees at all at all, Master Herbert," said Richard, scrutinizing the animal's legs with the car lamp in his hand. "I don't think he's a taste the worse. But the car, Master Herbert, is clane smashed."

Such being found to be undoubtedly the fact, there was nothing for it but that the ladies should walk home. Herbert again forgot that the age of his aunt imperatively demanded all the assistance that he could lend her, and with many lamentations that fortune and the frost should have used her so cruelly, he gave his arm to Clara.

"But do think of Miss Fitzgerald," said Clara, speaking gently into his ear.

"Who? oh, my aunt. Aunt Letty never cares for anybody's arm; she always prefers walking alone."

"Fie, Mr. Fitzgerald, fie! It is impossible to believe such an assertion as that." And yet Clara did seem to believe it; for she took his proffered arm without further objection.

It was half-past seven when they reached the hall door, and at that time they had all forgotten the misfortune of the car in the fun of the dark frosty walk home. Herbert had found a boy to lead his horse, and Richard was of course left with the ruins in the road.

"And how's your arm now?" asked Herbert, tenderly, as they entered in under the porch.

"Oh, it does not hurt me hardly at all. I don't mind it in the least." And then the door was opened for them.

They all flocked into the hall, and there they were met by Lady Fitzgerald.

"Oh, mamma," said Mary, "I know you're quite frightened out of your life! But there's nothing the matter. The horse tumbled down; but there's nobody hurt."

"And we had to walk home from the turn to Ballyclough," said Emmeline. "But, oh mamma, what's the matter?" They all now looked up at Lady Fitzgerald, and it was evident enough that something was the matter; something to be thought of infinitely more than that accident on the road.

"Oh, Mary, Mary, what is it?" said Aunt Letty, coming forward and taking hold of her sister-in-law's hand. "Is my brother ill?"

"Sir Thomas is not very well, and I've been waiting for you so long. Where's Herbert? I must speak to Herbert." And then the mother and son left the hall together.

There was then a silence among the four ladies that were left there standing. At first they followed each other into the drawing-room, all wrapped up as they were and sat on chairs apart, saying nothing to each other. At last Aunt Letty got up.

"You had better go up-stairs with Lady Clara," said she; "I will go to your mamma."

"Oh, Aunt Letty, do send us word; pray send us word," said Emmeline.

Mary now began to cry. "I know he's very ill. I'm sure he's very ill. Oh, what shall we do?"

"You had better go up stairs with Lady Clara," said Aunt Letty. "I will send you up word immediately."

"Oh, don't mind me; pray don't mind me," said Clara. "Pray, pray, don't take notice of me;" and she rushed forward, and throwing herself on her knees before Emmeline, began to kiss her.

They remained here, heedless of Aunt Letty's advice, for some ten minutes, and then Herbert came to them. The two girls flew at him with questions; while Lady Clara stood by the window, anxious to learn, but unwilling to thrust herself into their family matters.

"My father has been much troubled to-day, and is not well," said Herbert. "But I do not think there is anything to frighten us. Come; let us go to dinner."

The going to dinner was but a sorry farce with any of them; but nevertheless, they went through the ceremony, each for the sake of the others.

"Mayn't we see him?" said the girls to their mother, who did come down into the drawing-room for one moment to speak to Clara.

"Not to-night, loves. He should not be disturbed." And so that day came to an end; not satisfactorily.

 

 

CHAPTER IX. FAMILY COUNCILS.
 

When the girls and Aunt Letty went to their chambers that night, Herbert returned to his mother's own dressing-room, and there, seated over the fire with her, discussed the matter of his father's sudden attack. He had been again with his father, and Sir Thomas had seemed glad to have him there; but now he had left him for the night.

"He will sleep now, mother," said the son; "he has taken laudanum."

"I fear he takes that too often now."

"It was good for him to have it to-night. He did not get too much, for I dropped it for him." And then they sat silent for a few moments together.

"Mother," said Herbert, "who can this man have been?"

"I have no knowledge—no idea—no guess even," said Lady Fitzgerald.

"It is that man's visit that has upset him."

"Oh, certainly. I think there is no doubt of that. I was waiting for the man to go, and went in almost before he was out of the house."

"Well?"

"And I found your father quite prostrated."

"Not on the floor?"

"No, not exactly on the floor. He was still seated on his chair, but his head was on the table, over his arms."

"I have often found him in that way, mother."

"But you never saw him looking as he looked this morning, Herbert. When I went in he was speechless, and he remained so, I should say, for some minutes."

"Was he senseless?"

"No; he knew me well enough, and grasped me by the hand; and when I would have gone to the bell to ring for assistance, he would not let me. I thought he would have gone into a fit when I attempted it."

"And what did you do?"

"I sat there by him, with his hand in mine, quite quietly. And then he uttered a long, deep sigh, and—oh, Herbert!"

"Well, mother?"

"At last, he burst into a flood of tears, and sobbed and cried like a child."

"Mother!"

"He did, so that it was piteous to see him. But it did him good, for he was better after it. And all the time he never let go my hand, but held it and kissed it. And then he took me by the waist, and kissed me, oh, so often. And all the while his tears were running like the tears of a girl." And Lady Fitzgerald, as she told the story, could not herself refrain from weeping.

"And did he say anything afterwards about this man?"

"Yes; not at first, that is. Of course I asked him who he was as soon as I thought he could bear the question. But he turned away, and merely said that he was a stupid man about some old London business, and that he should have gone to Prendergast. But when, after a while, I pressed him, he said that the man's name was Mollett, and that he had, or pretended to have, some claim upon the city property."

"A claim on the city property! Why, it's not seven hundred a year altogether. If any Mollett could run away with it all, that loss would not affect him like that."

"So I said, Herbert; not exactly in those words, but trying to comfort him. He then put it off by declaring that it was the consciousness of his inability to see any one on business which affected him so grievously."

"It was that he said to me."

"And there may be something in that, Herbert."

"Yes; but then what should make him so weak, to begin with? If you remember, mother, he was very well,—more like himself than usual last night."

"Oh, I observed it. He seemed to like having Clara Desmond there."

"Didn't he, mother? I observed that too. But then Clara Desmond is such a sweet creature." The mother looked at her son as he said this, but the son did not notice the look. "I do wonder what the real truth can be," he continued. "Do you think there is anything wrong about the property in general? About this estate, here?"

"No, I don't think that," said the mother, sadly.

"What can it be then?" But Lady Fitzgerald sat there, and did not answer the question. "I'll tell you what I will do, mother; I'll go up to London, and see Prendergast, and consult him."

"Oh, no; you mustn't do that. I am wrong to tell you all this, for he told me to talk to no one. But it would kill me if I didn't speak of it to you."

"All the same, mother, I think it would be best to consult Prendergast."

"Not yet, Herbert. I dare say Mr. Prendergast may be a very good sort of man, but we none of us know him. And if, as is very probable, this is only an affair of health, it would be wrong in you to go to a stranger. It might look—"

"Look what, mother?"

"People might think—he, I mean—that you wanted to interfere."

"But who ought to interfere on his behalf if I don't?"

"Quite true, dearest; I understand what you mean, and know how good you are. But perhaps Mr. Prendergast might not. He might think you wanted—"

"Wanted what, mother? I don't understand you."

"Wanted to take the things out of your father's hands."

"Oh, mother!"

"He doesn't know you. And, what is more, I don't think he knows much of your father. Don't go to him yet." And Herbert promised that he would not.

"And you don't think that this man was ever here before?" he asked.

"Well, I rather think he was here once before; many years ago—soon after you went to school."

"So long ago as that?"

"Yes; not that I remember him, or, indeed, ever knew of his coming then, if he did come. But Jones says that she thinks she remembers him."

"Did Jones see him now?"

"Yes; she was in the hall as he passed through on his way out. And it so happened that she let him in and out too when he came before. That is, if it is the same man."

"That's very odd."

"It did not happen here. We were at Tenby for a few weeks in the summer."

"I remember; you went there with the girls just when I went back to school."

"Jones was with us, and Richard. We had none other of our own servants. And Jones says that the same man did come then; that he stayed with your father for an hour or two; and that when he left, your father was depressed—almost as he was yesterday. I well remember that. I know that a man did come to him at Tenby; and—oh, Herbert!"

"What is it, mother? Speak out at any rate to me."

"Since that man came to him at Tenby he has never been like what he was before."

And then there was more questioning between them about Jones and her remembrances. It must be explained that Jones was a very old and very valued servant. She had originally been brought up as a child by Mrs. Wainwright, in that Dorsetshire parsonage, and had since remained firm to the fortunes of the young lady, whose maid she had become on her first marriage. As her mistress had been promoted, so had Jones. At first she had been Kitty to all the world, now she was Mrs. Jones to the world at large, Jones to Sir Thomas and her mistress and of late years to Herbert, and known by all manner of affectionate sobriquets to the young ladies.